


Switchblades and Infidelity

by ohfreckle



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Jealousy, Knifeplay, M/M, Mild Gore, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-26
Updated: 2011-12-26
Packaged: 2017-10-28 04:15:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/303630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohfreckle/pseuds/ohfreckle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur hates a lot of things, like zombies and knives. Eames loves a lot of things, like Arthur and knives. Eames tries to make them meet somewhere in the middle, that's when things go wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Switchblades and Infidelity

**Author's Note:**

> This is me reposting under my new name, because I was too stupid to figure out how easy it is to change your account name.

_Click_.

“Shit, I’m out of ammo, too.” Arthur curses.

He looks around the small and empty room they are trapped in, keeps a sharp eye on the crowd of slowly approaching projections that are pressing through the open door. They’re moving slowly, their movements sluggish and jerky. _Of course they’re slow, they’re motherfucking zombies._ Arthur thinks sourly. How is this his life: _zombies_. Andrew Larkson, their mark, really is a sick bastard behind the nice guy facade, and zombies are definitely not what either of them had expected when they took on a supposedly simple in-and-out job.

He should have known better than to work again with Hollister. He’s a nice guy and a decent extractor, but he’s also still a bit green and has a knack for picking out the worst jobs without fail. Only this one had sounded so simple that even Hollister couldn’t be wrong about it, and Arthur loves Barcelona in August. Well, Eames loves Barcelona in August, and a happy Eames is a happy Arthur.

“Stay back, I’ve got this,” Eames says and throws his equally empty and useless gun away.

”You’d better,” Arthur grumbles. This is not his day.

The metallic clatter as the gun skitters on the floor sounds eerily loud in the small room, the only other sounds their heavy breathing and the shuffling steps of the zombies dragging their feet.

There are four of them, ruined and foul smelling _things_ , but they’re also vicious and ruthless attackers. Too many to take on for two unarmed men, however well trained they both are. Three dead bodies are lying inside the room, a whole trail of them in the hallway outside. Most of them are taken down with a clean head-shot. Arthur actually had something close to fun at the beginning, trying to kill them with one shot, but there seemed to be no end to the steady stream of new enemies and the whole affair had gotten tedious and annoying rather fast. Everywhere is blood, spattered on the walls and in pools around the dead zombies. The small safe room is painted a vibrant red in the bright and cold neon light.

“You wound me, Arthur, have a little faith.” Eames says. “Just stay back, this might get a little unpleasant.”

Arthur can’t do much but obey Eames’s order. There’s a wall in his back and Eames in front of him, and he’s more or less defenseless against the projections. So he presses back against the wall, tries to stay out of Eames’s way and waits for Eames to do something. Preferably fast.

Eames bends down and withdraws a hunting knife he’s carried hidden in his boot. He straightens again and positions himself in front of Arthur in a wide stance. Arthur blinks in surprise; in all these years he’s seen Eames use a vast array of guns and rifles, but never a knife.

They have only five minutes left in the dream, but Arthur knows only too well how extremely painful five minutes being torn to pieces can be. He’d rather stay in one piece and wait for the kick, so he stays back without asking any questions and leaves it to Eames to fend off the projections as long as possible. Eames always complains about Arthur not letting him have any fun, so he supposes he can be generous this once.

He hopes that Hollister isn't a complete fuck-up and actually got the information they came for, or there will be hell to pay. Arthur _hates_ botched jobs. Word travels fast in the dreamshare community and he has a reputation to uphold. If he has to lose it, he’d rather it were not about a beginner’s job.

Arthur actually hates a lot of things, and one is dying slowly in a dream. It’s painful and undignified, and always makes him wake up in a foul mood. Being eaten by things that stink like a sewer is new, but it already ranks pretty high on his do-not-want list.

“Why in hell did you bring a _knife_?” he asks Eames, unable to hide his curiosity any longer, a hint of annoyance in his voice. He knows he should be glad instead of being irritated that Eames is better armed, but it’s _his_ job to always be prepared. Arthur hates being out-smarted, even by someone as smart as Eames.

“I like them as back up, easy to carry and hide. _And_ we’re working with Hollister.” Eames shrugs and keeps concentrating on the projections.

Well, there is that.

Standing behind Eames with nothing much to do, Arthur has all the time to look. He can see the coiled tension in Eames’s shoulders as he waits and readies himself for the first attack, shifting his stance for better balance. It comes only moments later, one zombie shuffling forward and pawing at them with a dumb sounding groan. Eames swings his arm in a wide arc and slits its throat with a single deep cut. The damn thing sways on its feet, blood spraying from the gash and soaking Eames’s shirt, before it finally crumbles to the floor. The other zombies are drawing closer as well, sensing their prey, but thankfully slowed down by the dead bodies in their way.

Three minutes left.

“Oh, bugger all, this is vile.” Eames grunts. “Arthur, you owe me for making me take this job. You do not even know how much you owe me.”

“I distinctly remember that you enjoyed the ‘making you take it’ part very much.” Arthur shifts and isn’t surprised when he doesn’t get an answer for his lame pun.

Eames is sure and quick on his feet for someone so big, probably a skill acquired in years of military combat training. Arthur idly reflects that goddamn zombies threatening to eat them should maybe concern him a little more, but he knows Eames can handle this.

The muscles in Eames’s back and shoulders are bunching while he slices and stabs. His shirt is soaked with sweat and blood and leaves nothing to the imagination. It’s white and mostly transparent at this point, clings to Eames’s broad upper body and gives Arthur an eyeful of muscles and tattoos. Arthur _always_ enjoys looking at Eames’s flexing biceps, but what keeps him riveted right now is the knife in Eames’s hand. Both of Eames’s hands are covered with blood, but despite that his hold on the knife is sure. Eames’s thick fingers grip the handle tightly, his moves precise and efficient while he cuts through flesh and tendons.

Arthur hates knives, has never been comfortable with how easy it is to inflict damage with just a small slip of attention. Arthur prefers guns and the precision of a bullet, but watching Eames fight, Arthur admits that maybe he has to reassess this opinion.

It’s like watching a graceful dance, Eames and the glistening and bloody blade the dancers, both a deadly weapon. _A killer at work_ , Arthur thinks, but it’s merely an observation and lacks judgment, they’re both cut from the same cloth. People tend to be blinded by Eames’s charm and easygoing demeanor, most of them only recognizing the lethal threat behind the smiles when it’s already too late.

 

Arthur wakes with a gasp. Removing his IV and rounding on Hollister takes less than thirty seconds.

“What the fuck was that, Hollister?” Arthur demands hotly. “We signed on for an extraction from an accountant, not from a fucking lunatic. Jesus Christ, every time you – this was the last time we’re working with you.” He stabs an accusing finger at Hollister who stares at Arthur in dismay, clearly without the slightest idea what Arthur is even talking about.

“What happened down there?” he asks. “I got the information easy enough, but then you were both gone and I couldn’t find you.”

“Because we were chased and almost eaten by a horde of zombies and had to run to the safe room. The safe room _I_ had the foresight to include, because I _knew_ you’d -”

“Easy there, Arthur,” Eames interrupts, “there’s nobody to blame here. Neither of us could have guessed that dear Mr. Larkson is not as harmless as he seems.”

Arthur turns to Eames and frowns at him. Hollister behind them takes this as his chance for a tactical retreat and turns to check on Larkson and wipe everything down.

“Fighting an army of zombies with knives is not exactly my idea of fun,” Arthur gripes and rights his cuff links. “Jesus, what a fucking mess.”

“If I remember correctly, my dear Arthur, it was one knife and I did all the fighting,” Eames smirks. He runs a single finger slowly down Arthur’s zipper, and Arthur only now realizes he’s been half-hard the whole time. Fuck.

“Seems to me like you like knives well enough,” Eames says, voice rough and too low for Hollister to hear, and hooks a finger through Arthur’s belt loop to draw him closer.

“Maybe I do now, just a little,” Arthur admits, a little breathless, for a moment forgetting that he is actually rather disgruntled. He looks at Eames from beneath his lashes and rubs his palm over his zipper, following the trail Eames’s finger just made. _Focus, you’re still on the job_ he thinks distantly, but he really couldn’t care less about Hollister and Larkson right now. The job is laughable, and Hollister owes him a lot more than two minutes of Eames-time for ruining his day.

“Uh, guys, some things cannot be unseen. I’m still here, you know,” Hollister says. His eyes are firmly fixed on a point about five feet next to them.

“It would be great if you could continue this mating thing you have going elsewhere; we really need to get out of here before he wakes up.” He tips his head at Larkson, who’s still asleep but seems to be getting restless, a sign that he’ll wake up soon.

Arthur raises an eyebrow and smirks at Eames, but he steps back and accepts the two bundles of money Hollister gingerly holds out to him. He’s still pissed at him, but he reins himself in and thanks Hollister with a curt nod. Arthur still has a lot to say to Hollister about proper research and job preparation, but he’d also rather not waste any more time here. There’s a king-size hotel bed and later a plane waiting for Eames and him, and he has plans for both.

Hollister seems to be more than relieved at getting away this easily. He turns to leave so quickly he almost trips over his own feet, but Arthur catches his sleeve and leans in. “Never call us again,” he whispers in Hollister’s ear, “or next time we’ll fuck right in front of you.”

~*~

Arthur comes back to their apartment late after a pleasant dinner with an old friend. They’re on a well-deserved break after a long row of jobs, and have decided to spend some days in Paris to unwind, catch up with friends and spend a lot of the money they just earned.

So far only Arthur has spent money. There are three garment bags with new suits in his side of the wardrobe, and Arthur is determined to drag Eames along tomorrow. He’ll make him try on the lovely Burberry and black Ozwald Boateng he saw just a few hours earlier. Arthur is in lust with the Boateng, or rather with how it will look draped over Eames’s body. He won’t be held responsible for any behavior that might occur in the dressing room while Eames tries it on. They will have to buy two suits, the one they’re going to ruin and one for Eames to actually wear. It will be worth every cent.

“Hello, love.” Eames greets him with a smile. “Did you have a nice evening with your friend?”

He’s sitting on the couch, working on something that looks like a fake ID at the coffee table. Eames looks gorgeous in a wifebeater and gray sweatpants, soft and a bit rumpled. As always Arthur takes a moment to just look at him.

He walks over to Eames and leans down for a kiss. He lets his lips linger, enjoys the roughness of Eames’s two days old stubble on his skin.

“Mmmh, hello. Jacques, his name is Jacques, and yes, it was very nice. He was a colleague of Mal. I told you about him.” He runs the pad of his thumb over Eames’s lips, and Eames darts his tongue out and licks it. “You seem busy.”

“Actually I’m finished, just wrapping things up.” Eames tugs and Arthur goes willingly, fitting himself firmly sideways into Eames’s lap. They sit like that, quietly, for the moment content just to be with each other. Eames strokes his hip lightly and lays his cheek against Arthur’s hair.

“I swung by Ariadne’s on my way back,” Arthur says. He picks up Eames’s hand that’s not on his hip and rubs his face against it. “She says hi and that she will castrate you if we’re late again tomorrow.”

Arthur hums and leans more heavily into Eames. He’s drowsy and content, sitting in his favorite place with his belly full of excellent food and wine. He’s so comfortable, he’ll never get up again, _never_.

Eames chuckles and kisses him soundly, smacking his lips like he just had a delicious treat.

“Dire threats, indeed; I’d best do as she says, then. Who else would satisfy your sexual needs like I. You’d be impossible to be around without the comforts of my cock, drive everyone bloody insane.” He shifts Arthur from his lap onto the couch and stands up.

“Until now I was enjoying myself.” Arthur kicks his socked foot at him. “Besides, castration doesn’t involve your cock, just your balls.” He looks up at Eames with a mock scowl from where he’s lounging on the couch. “And you’re not _that_ good.”

“Oh, darling, we both know I’m even better.” Eames leers and grabs his crotch in a crude gesture he must have picked up on MTV, and Arthur can barely suppress a laugh.

“Why don’t you change into something more comfortable? Everybody will be happier tomorrow if your suit isn’t rumpled.” Eames smiles down at him. “Tried to impress Jacques with the Armani, didn’t you. Come on, I’ll open a bottle of wine, and then we can make out on the couch all you want. We even can pretend to watch a movie and _not_ cuddle.”

Standing up and moving requires a lot of effort, but Arthur eventually manages with a fair amount of complaining and grumbling under his breath.

“It’s not abuse if you like it.” Eames says and smacks him on the ass on his way to the bedroom. Arthur only shakes his ass and throws a “promises, promises” over his shoulder.

In the bedroom Arthur quickly strips out of his suit. He’s down to his briefs when he notices the black box on his side of the bed. It seems to be made of lacquered wood, the surface gleaming but otherwise unadorned. It looks expensive, like a large jewelry box. Arthur walks over and strokes over the smooth wood, curious and dying to open it. It’s on his side of the bed, so it’s for him, right?

“Eames,” he calls, “what’s in the box? Did you get me a _gift_?” He picks the box up and shakes it next to his ear like an excited child at Christmas, but there’s no sound.

Eames appears in the doorway and casually leans again the doorjamb. He crosses his arms and nods towards the box. “Go on, open it. It’s for you,” Eames says, “if you want it.”

Arthur smiles at him, a full blown smile with his dimples showing, and tears at the box.

“When did you go shopping? I thought you – “

Inside the box is not what Arthur expected. No jewelry, no bespoke leather belt – only two knives.

They’re nothing fancy, just ordinary hunter knives, one medium sized, one very small. Arthur realizes the larger one looks exactly like the one Eames used in the dream in Barcelona: stainless steel on black silk, like a gift. They _are_ a gift, but they’re Arthur’s to give.

Arthur swallows hard and stares at the box in his hands, doesn’t know what to say. He understands what Eames is offering, what he’s _asking_ , but Arthur’s not sure if he can give it. He puts the box back on the bed, still at loss for words, but aware that Eames is watching him closely, waiting for an answer.

Eames is suddenly there behind him and wraps his arms around Arthur’s middle. Arthur covers Eames’s hands with his own, leans back into the familiar warmth of Eames’s broad chest and breathes him in.

“Do you want them?” Eames murmurs.

 _Do you trust me?_ is what he really asks.

Arthur closes his eyes and rubs his cheek against Eames’s collarbone. Eames envelops him completely with his larger frame, gripping him tightly and it would take some effort for Arthur to break his hold if he wanted to. He hasn’t wanted to for some time now.

“I saw you kill with this.” Arthur says.

“Yes.”

They’re both talking quietly, their playful mood from earlier gone and replaced by an air of uneasy tension.

Arthur is acutely aware that Eames has upped the stakes and it’s up to Arthur to accept or not. It’s not about sex. They do a lot of kinky things in bed, have safewords and push each other to and over the edge all the time. This – this is about trusting Eames on a whole different level, trusting him literally with his life.

People who don’t know them well don’t understand how they work, how they simply _fit_ together. Arthur has to repeat again and again to friends and acquaintances that yes, he trusts Eames, trusts him with his life. Arthur doesn’t even have to think about it when he says it; it’s one of the few things he’s sure of in his life. But until now it always meant that he trusts Eames to have his back in a fight, to keep him safe no matter what, and not betray him. It always meant that he trusts Eames to protect him from others.

It never meant that _Eames_ is the possible threat.

Eames is tense behind him, his arms still gripping Arthur tightly. Arthur knows Eames, knows that he takes Arthur’s silence as rejection and is waiting for the blow. He feels his cheeks heat in embarrassment for even having to think about it. He trusts Eames with his life, trusts him with his body every time he shares his bed. Trusting Eames not to hurt him shouldn’t even be an issue.

“Of course I want them.” Arthur says. His voice is sure and steady, and he’s glad for it. He needs Eames to know that he really means it.

The only outward sign of Eames’s relief is the small puff of air he’s held and now releases against Arthur’s neck. He loosens his grip on Arthur for the tiniest bit and presses a small kiss to the base of his neck: a silent _Thank You_.

“Everything ok?” Eames mouths the question into Arthur’s neck. “We don’t have to do this now. I just wanted you to have them. You decide when you’re ready.”

Arthur supposes he was even more obvious about his reservations than he thought. It’s even more important that they do this now, because he wants Eames to _know_.

“It’s more than ok. I - thank you. “

Eames’s half-hard cock presses against his ass, and suddenly everything shifts from pensive to hot and urgent. Arthur reaches back with his right hand and draws Eames forward for a kiss. Eames immediately licks into his mouth with deep strokes. No teasing, no build up, he just takes what he needs from Arthur. It’s sloppy and wet, no finesse at all. It’s _perfect_.

Eames breaks the kiss with a last nip and nudges Arthur’s face so he looks down his body.

Arthur watches Eames’s large hands slowly moving down his belly, sliding under the waistband of his boxers. Eames just rests them inside, framing Arthur’s cock for a moment, thumbs stroking lightly through his curls.

Arthur is not hard; he’s burning with arousal, but he’s been too busy overanalyzing and his cock is just now starting to catch up, not even half-way there. It makes Eames’s touch feel even more oddly intimate – loving – and Arthur can’t hold back a small sigh.

“Shhh, I know, love, I know.” Eames says and pushes the boxers down his hips. “Just get out of these and you can have it.”

Arthur isn’t sure what ‘it’ entails, but he’ll probably find out soon enough. Eames steps back from him with a little pat on his ass. Arthur takes the hint and steps out of his boxers. He stands there naked, unsure what to do with his hands. Jesus, it’s just sex with Eames, there’s no reason to be nervous. Except that he is.

When Eames turns back around, he has the larger knife in his hand and there’s a wolfish grin on his face. Arthur knows this grin; it’s not nice. Usually it’s not directed at him and means Eames is about to inflict serious pain.

Eames holds the knife out between them, lets Arthur look at how sharp the blade is, before he lifts it and presses it to Arthur’s throat. Arthur tilts his head back instinctively, trying to relieve the pressure. It doesn’t work; Eames just presses a little harder right against his Adam’s apple. Arthur fights the urge to swallow and breathes a little shallower.

“Did you have a nice evening with Jacques?” Eames asks casually. He rests his other hand on Arthur’s neck, his grip firm and effectively holding him in place.

Arthur is confused why Eames wants to talk about his dinner, but he doesn’t dare to speak or nod, so he just raises an eyebrow and hopes Eames understands the question.

“I said, _Did you have a nice evening with Jacques?_ ” Eames voice sounds deceptively silky, but from the corner of his eye Arthur can see that his eyes are narrowed.

The blade moves slowly down his throat with constant pressure. It rasps over his stubble, the sound overly loud in Arthur’s ears.

“I’m still waiting.” Eames says and presses the knife against Arthur’s clavicle. There’s a sharp burn like a paper cut, but when Arthur looks down he sees no blood, just the blade digging into his skin.

“Yes, I did.” Arthur replies. He doesn’t know the rules of this game, so he opts for the truth. Jacques is witty and good company, but his answer doesn’t seem to satisfy Eames who keeps slowly dragging the blade lower without letting up on the pressure.

Eames stops moving it when he reaches Arthur’s nipple, presses the blade flat over it. It’s still a bit cold, feels strange and alien on the little nub.

Eames other hand releases his neck, grips his cock instead and gives it a firm tug. Arthur only realizes he’s been fully hard for some time now when Eames’s hand leaves his cock and smears the wetness on his fingers over his lips. Arthur closes his eyes and moans, loud and unashamed, draws Eames’s fingers into his mouth. He suckles them, enjoys the taste own his own precome and Eames’s sweat, loving the way Eames presses down on his tongue and makes him take more.

Now that he’s aware of his body again and not just concentrating on the knife, Arthur can’t stop thinking about hard he is, how much he _needs_. He‘s wet, precome pooling in his slit and slowly sliding down his shaft. He wants Eames to touch him again, wants to rub himself against that strong thigh, but he doesn’t dare move because there’s still a sharp knife pressed against him. Instead he exhales sharply through his nose and sucks stronger on Eames’s fingers, laves them like a cock and wills Eames to understand what he needs.

“Look at you. Your beautiful cock, so hard and wet.” Eames breathes. “Were you this hard and pretty for Jacques, too?”

Arthur’s eyes fly open. _Is that what the knives are about? Eames is jealous?_

“Did you make yourself pretty so he would look at you?” Eames takes his fingers from Arthur’s mouth, grips his chin instead and makes him look at Eames. Arthur feels the blade pressing into him a little more and wills himself to stay still and not flinch, or he’ll end up with a sliced nipple. His cock is spurting tiny bubbles of precome.

He watches Eames closely, but can’t decide if Eames really means it or if they’re just playing. There’s no way to read him if he doesn’t want to be read. Arthur looks for Eames’s usual tell, the little tic under his left eye, but his face is set carefully neutral. He briefly considers safewording out, but then Eames suddenly releases him and tumbles him back on the bed.

Arthur falls back on the small mountain of pillows at the headboard in a half sprawl. He licks his lips and sighs, watches hungrily as Eames drops the knife and efficiently strips out of his sweats and undershirt. He reveals broad planes of tanned skin marred with ink, the flawless line of his neck. Maybe Arthur’s a little out of his depth here, but he will never miss an opportunity to enjoy Eames’s body, built like a fighter and so fucking gorgeous.

Eames stands next to the bed, unashamed and confident , lets Arthur look all he wants at his bulging muscles and his fat cock. He palms his balls and watches Arthur closely from under those ridiculously long lashes. Arthur feels his cock leak at the scrutiny. He accepts the unspoken challenge, spreads his legs slowly and lets Eames see where he wants to be touched.

“Come on, Eames, don’t tease.” Arthur demands. He reaches down and presses a dry fingertip into his hole, slides it in to the first knuckle.

“I want you, right here.” He’s not ready and it burns, but he feels empty and he _needs_. Arthur can take a little pain if it will earn him Eames’s cock. He clenches a little around his finger, tilts his hips to give Eames a better viewing angle. It feels good, but it’s not enough by far . “Eames – please.”

Eames drops between Arthur’s legs, knees them a little wider to make room for his large frame. Arthur lets him when Eames grabs his knees and spreads him, helps Eames to arrange him like he wants.

“Arthur, always begging so prettily.”

Eames rubs a finger over the rim of Arthur’s hole, puts his hand over Arthur’s between his legs and presses down. He makes Arthur take more of his own finger, fuck himself with shallow strokes. It burns even more with the friction of movement, but Arthur is beyond caring, tilts his hips so he can go a little deeper.

“You’re gagging for cock, love, aren’t you? Always need something to fill your little hole.” Eames presses a small kiss to the inside of Arthur’s knee, lets his lips linger and takes his hand away. Arthur feels one of Eames’s thick fingers next to his own, dry pressure on his rim where he’s already raw and sensitive. He _wants_ it, hears Eames murmur soothing and encouraging noises, but he’s too wound up and not slick enough to relax around both of them. He squeezes his eyes shut, tries to ride out the burn and gasps “Eames, lube.”

Eames’s hand is gone immediately, the mattress dipping under them when he reaches over to the nightstand. Arthur removes his own hand, takes a couple of deep breaths and tries to calm himself a little.

Arthur expects the wetness of lube when Eames settles back between his legs, not cold steel at his clavicle.

“Tell me, love, did he look at you?” Eames asks pleasantly, but there’s a sharp and possessive glint in his eyes. “Did you _let_ him look?”

Arthur bites lip and holds Eames’s gaze, wills him to not look away and shakes his head. “No, I didn’t,” he whispers.

“Good.” Eames murmurs and drags the tip of the blade slowly down Arthur’s chest, circles his navel and presses down hard beneath it. It stings. Arthur fights to keep still and doesn’t dare to breathe.

“Because I don’t share.”

“Penrose!”

Arthur blurts his safeword out before he can even think about it.

The knife is gone immediately, and then Eames is kneeling next to him and cradles Arthur’s face in his hands. “Arthur. Love, are you ok?” he asks, his eyes a little wild. He looks concerned, stroking his thumbs over Arthur’s cheekbones and his sweaty hair from his brow. Arthur closes his eyes and lets him for a short moment, nuzzling a little in to Eames’s hand. Then he punches him in the shoulder. Hard.

Eames jerks back in surprise with a confused “What the -”

Arthur uses the moment to surge up and roll them over, reversing their positions until Eames is sitting against the pillows. Arthur straddles his hips, and then he punches him again. He makes sure it’s the same spot. It’s _meant_ to hurt.

“Arthur, what – “

Eames’s eyebrows are knitted in confusion. Arthur refuses to think it’s adorable, even in his own head. He reaches into the nightstand, grabs the lube and thrusts it into Eames’s hand. “Shut up and fuck me,” he demands.

Eames looks at him like Arthur has finally lost it, but this is the one order he _never_ refuses. Arthur kneels up over him, braces his arms on Eames’s shoulders for balance and sticks his ass out.

A slick finger strokes over his hole and he shoves back against it, impatient to feel it inside. Eames takes the hint and breaches him easily, pulls out and comes back with two fingers. He opens Arthur up with short hard thrusts, scissors his fingers and adds a third when Arthur asks for it, breathless and flushed. Arthur rocks his hips and keens when Eames’s crooks his fingers just right, pants a litany of _right there_ and _god, don’t stop_ into Eames’s temple.

Eames moans helplessly, legs stretched out in front of him and immobile with Arthur kneeling over him, not a single bit of friction on his cock. He distracts himself by biting tiny kisses into every patch of skin where his face is pressed against Arthur’s chest.

It’s still too soon, but Arthur is so close he can taste it, and he needs to come with Eames inside him.

“I’m ready. Just – fuck me already.”

Arthur lifts up and lets Eames’s fingers slip out of him, his hole clenching with the loss. Eames slicks himself quickly, holds his cock steady in his slippery fist while Arthur rocks back. Fuck, it’s still tight, Eames’s cock considerably more to take than three fingers. Arthur ignores the burn and presses down, pushes until he feels his slick and loose rim finally give around the fat head of Eames’s cock and it slips through the ring of muscle. Eames only lets go once Arthur’s hole is firmly squeezing around his tip. He puts both hands on Arthur’s ass, tries to take off some of his weight. They kiss open-mouthed and panting, while Arthur rocks down on Eames’s cock with little circles of hips until he’s fully seated in Eames’s lap.

Eames curses up a storm while he waits for Arthur to adjust, insults every saint Arthur’s ever heard of and a few more he probably just made up. The angle is awkward; with Eames half reclining and Arthur pressing as close to him as he can, neither of them has proper leverage.

Arthur takes Eames’s face in his hands, holds him immobile while he kisses him. “You idiot, you could have just told me.” He breathes the words into Eames’s mouth, shakes him a little so Eames will look at him.

“I –” Eames begins. He exhales sharply, tries to find the right words; he’s too smart to pretend that he doesn’t know what Arthur is talking about.

“Christ, Arthur. I want you all the fucking time.”

Eames licks his lips, flexes his hands where they rest on Arthur’s ass. He’s – not nervous, but clearly uncomfortable. “You’re brilliant and gorgeous, and I _hate_ the way other men look at you.” The words come out clipped and rushed, so different from Eames’s usual beautiful vowels, but Arthur wants to drink them in anyways.

Arthur clenches hard around him and starts rocking his hips a little. “And I’m yours, you idiot.” He licks over Eames’s plush bottom lip, just _has_ to kiss him before he can continue. “I fucking hope the feeling is mutual.” Eames wisely keeps his mouth shut, but the way he looks at him is answer enough for Arthur.

Tomorrow they will have a long and awkward talk about acceptable ways to express themselves and why knives are not one of them, but right now all Arthur thinks about is how badly he needs to come.

There’s still something left, though. He nods to the nightstand where the black box with the small knife is still sitting. “Come on, I know you want to leave a mark. You have two minutes or I’ll come all over you.”

Eames shakes his head and slides down with Arthur in his lap, until he’s flat on his back “Not now.” he whispers.

He’s hot and sweaty under Arthur, the wide expanse of his chest a canvas Arthur wants to paint, put his own marks next to black ones already there.

“Come on, ride me.” It’s half plea, half command, Eames’s voice wrecked.

Arthur braces his hands on Eames’s chest and lifts up slowly. He squeezes his muscles around Eames’s cock, loves the feeling of every inch sliding out slowly, dragging over the sensitive rim of his hole. He briefly stops when just the head is still inside him, and then slides down. He sets a slow rhythm, wants to draw it out a little longer just to see Eames absolutely _wrecked_ under him, hear him groan out delicious and filthy noises that all sound like Arthur’s name.

“Oh god, fuck – “ Arthur sobs out when he finally finds the right angle, clenches down hard on Eames’s cock inside him. He moves his hips in frantic little circles so the head keeps dragging over his prostate, sending the little shivers of pleasure he was looking for through his whole body, but it’s shallow and he needs –

“More.” Arthur gasps, “Eames, move, _come on._

Eames has no breath left for an answer, but he braces his feet and fucks up hard and fast into Arthur, desperate to move after holding still for so long while Arthur took his pleasure.

Arthur falls forward, bracing his hands on either side of Eames’s face, looks down in Eames’s wild eyes. He laughs breathlessly, a little giddy. He can’t help it because, _god_ , Eames feels so good inside him, stretching his hole wide and fucking him so hard he’ll feel it for days. The angle is perfect. His cock is leaking where it rubs against Eames’s abs, the relentless pressure of Eames pounding his prostate a deep ache inside of him and he needs just a little –

Arthur shatters apart when Eames moves a hand between his cheeks and feels around for where he fucks up into him. A finger rubs over Arthur’s sore rim, the touch light but possessive and Arthur comes with a needy sob, spilling between them. Eames fucks him through it with hard thrusts against his oversensitive prostate, egged on by Arthur’s demands of “keep going” and “please, don’t fucking stop”. Arthur lies utterly spent on Eames’s chest, lets Eames use him, but it’s only a few more strokes until Eames tenses and shoves into hard with a breathless gasp.

Neither of them has the energy to move. Arthur nuzzles into Eames neck and licks at the tendons he feels there, lets Eames pet and put his hands all over him. Arthur loves these minutes after sex with Eames, when everything is warm and fuzzy. He’ll just lie here on Eames’s chest a little longer; enjoy the feeling of Eames playing with his own come that’s leaking out of Arthur.

Tomorrow he will kick Eames out at 7am to bring him fresh croissants for breakfast and make him wash the sheets. Then they will talk. Maybe. He hopes he already made his point clear enough.


End file.
